Step by step, let's go up the tower;

Where dragons sleep and fairies dance.

Step by step, let's go up the tower;

Higher than the birds can fly.

Step by step, let's go up the tower;

Where all your dreams and wishes come true.

Step by step, let's go up the tower;

Uh-oh, is that your dream, or is it mine?

- A banned song from 'The City's Collection of Folk Songs and Rhymes' by Ernest Whickingham.

* * *

Sometimes I wonder if my ability to be semi-aware that I was dreaming is a good or bad, and right now I am leaning towards the latter.

I find myself walking up a flight of stairs. The steps kept changing, sometimes they looked like the creaky wooden steps in my house, then it was the weathered stone steps of the dormitory, then it became the compacted soil steps from my village, a sleek silvery metal that seemed impossibly smooth, even the pulsating rubbery skin of an ancient beast.

Although the steps kept changing, some things were constant. The stairs, which seemed to stretched upwards and downwards to infinity, was encircling the outer walls of some sort of stone structure. Thick dark clouds were tightly wrapped against the edge of the stairs, but for some reason they weren't obstructing the stairway. There were also windows of various shapes and sizes on the walls to my right. Although I was tempted to peek in, something instinctively stopped me from doing so.

As if the atmosphere was not creepy enough, I could hear faint whispers, children giggling, panic screaming, even the merry sounds of a party. I wasn't sure if the sounds were from the tower or from the clouds, but I just kept moving forward.

Zico. Someone or something breathed into my left ear.

I stopped and looked around. Seeing nothing around me asides from the stairs, the wall, and the clouds, I shrugged and kept moving.

Now, if this had been in the real world, I would have immediately plastered myself with charms, blast everything around me to oblivion, then fly off as fast as I can.

However, this is a dream, and as far as dream logic goes all I needed to keep walking.

So I did.

I walked and walked and walked and walked.

It is hard to tell how much time flows in a dream. Sometimes it feels like I have been walking for years, at others it felt like mere minutes had passed. Even though the steps and windows kept shifting and morphing, my goal to reach the top of the stairs was unchanging.

A short while later (or is it a long time, who knows?), I saw someone else in front of me. He was a middle-aged man wearing a sharp black suit. From time to time he would peek into the windows and jot something down on his clipboard.

I stopped and silently watched him as he continued muttering and scribbling. However, he quickly noticed me and waved cheerily.

"A visitor! How very welcome," he said. I nodded in reply.

"Are you an elf? A pixie? A whoompiedoodle? You look human, but what with that red fur I really can't be sure." He adjusted his glasses as he observed me.

Red fur? I stretched out my arms and was slightly alarmed at the furry red hair, but I successfully willed myself back to normal and the fur receded.

Soon, my mind cleared up as I started recalling the memories of what happened earlier. As I became more lucid, I felt a sense of panic and wariness set in towards the man.

I grew more alarmed as the man started walking towards me, which my lingering dream logic told me should be impossible.

"So you are a human!" He exclaimed. "That's even rarer. The last human guest I had was three centuries ago... I think."

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"Who are you?" I gestured my right hand behind me in an attempt to conjure my wand, which to my pleasant surprise worked.

The man stopped and raised his hands. "Calm down, Zico. You really don't want to use any magic in this place."

"I am the Archivist. Let's have a little chat."

* * *

While I was still considering my options, the Archivist had already "shoved" his pen and clipboard into thin air. He then "yanked" out chairs and a table which already had cutleries and cloth. Cheerily whistling away, he continued pulling out scones, sandwiches, pastries, cakes and other dishes which I didn't recognise, before finally ending with a steaming pot of tea.

"I will be mum, please sit," he beckoned with his chin as he poured the tea into two china teacups. I decided to play along and put the wand on the table with the tip pointing towards him. The Archivist merely smiled.

"That was quite the magic trick," I said as I sat myself down, making it a point to emphasise the word "magic".

"Oh please, that wasn't something as lowly as the type of magic you are thinking of," the Archivist said as he put the teapot down. "It's just some simple dimensional rule-bending combined with some dream logic nonsense. I find this trick very useful for storing things, or banishing some insufferable plebs. Do have some tea."

I sniffed the tea. Although it seemed normal enough, I tried to cast a cleansing spell over it just to be safe.

"Ah, ah, bad idea." Before I could react, the Archivist gestured and pulled my wand over across the table. He then "shoved" it elsewhere, the same way he did earlier with the pen and clipboard.

"I already warned you not to use any magic here," he said as he reached for some sandwiches. "Magic and dream logic is a very dangerous combination."

How should I know if this tea is even safe?

"Of course it is," he replied. I looked at him in surprise. "Why look so surprised? I know everything that happens here, including your thoughts."

Does that make you the...

"No, I am not the owner of this place," the Archivist replied. "I am merely a custodian, an archivist, a recorder of dreams, visions, and omens. I witness the nightmares and desires of conscious beings, and I climb the tower ever higher until the day I reach the top."

"I have seen many things here, Zico," he continued. "I watched the Ancients dreaming of an empty universe, I witnessed the poor drooling over a loaf of bread, I saw kings conquering nations and crowning themselves emperors over rivers of blood, even the joy of a lion sinking its fangs into the meat of its fresh kill. I have seen some joy, much insanity and an unbelievable amount of disappointment. And you know what's worst?"

The Archivist was now bending forward and glaring at me. I shook my head.

"I. Have. No. Dreams," he spat out bitterly. The two of us looked silently at one another.

"Sorry for that little outburst, that was very ungentlemanly of me," the Archivist sat down moments later as if nothing happened. "Anyway, what would you like to know?"

I thought silently at his query. There were so many questions I wanted to ask, but I am not sure if I was prepared for the answers.

"This is a dream, right?" I eventually asked.

The Archivist was silent for a few moments before bursting out in laughter.

"What an amusing young lad," the Archivist said as he wiped his eyes. "The answer to this question is both yes and no." I cocked my head in confusion.

"Imagine a river dividing two villages, can you accurately say which point in the river belongs to which village? The waking world is a village, the dream world is another village, this realm is the river," he explained.

"And this structure is a bridge?" I asked.

"Indeed. As to how you got here, I suspect your genes mingled with a summoned creature, which somehow caused your consciousness to temporarily wander into this dimension."

Curse my absorption powers.

"Don't detest it, absorption is a very useful skill. My previous human visitor, Sil-something, also absorbed a dragon heart and came here. I spent hours calming that rascal down and then scrubbing the scorch marks from his dragon fire."

I really don't like it when you read my mind.

"Sorry, it's not like I can help it," the Archiver shrugged unapologetically. "Everything here is magnified."

"How can I leave this place then? I'm really not a fan of you having free access to my brain," I asked, feeling slightly peeved.

"Wander around this place until the fog clears, which is once in a pink moon," he replied.

"The moon only turned pink once," I retorted.

"Exactly, but please don't interrupt. You can also try contacting the outside world to conduct the awakening ritual of the Ziraths, but you will need to first find a Dreamwalker, which is even rarer these days."

I leaned back and groaned. The Zirathian empire was gone two hundred years ago and I don't know any legally safe Dreamwalkers.

"Alternatively, you can just die," the Archivist nonchalantly suggested.

I raised my head and thought of some choice words.

"How rude! This is just like you dreaming of falling then suddenly wake up. It's similar but a just a little bit more extreme."

"But this isn't exactly a dream, is it?"

"Worst to worst, you die! Living is sometimes quite overrated in my opinion," the Archivist shrugged. I sighed.

"Seems like we have a decision," he stood up and magically (dimensionally, I corrected myself) kept everything away except for the teacup he was holding.

"Steve, show him how it's done."

To my surprise, 'Steve', the teacup, shook itself free and dropped on the floor. It slowly tottered over to the edge of the staircase.

"Steve was a sadistic warlord exiled here by his tribe centuries ago. While he is an unpleasant man, he makes for an excellent teacup," the Archivist explained to me as the two of us waited for the cup to make its way to the edge.

The teacup stopped as it reached the edge of the staircase and the fog. It started trembling pitifully.

Sigh. Tutting, the Archivist sauntered over and kicked the cup down the edge. I could faintly hear the sound of someone yelling, but I wouldn't swear on that.

"And that's how you die. Your turn."

"Now wait a m..." Before I could finish, he picked me up by the collar and flung me into the abyss below.

* * *

"Is that little shit still asleep?"